


Natural order

by Builder



Category: Black Panther (2018), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Appendicitis, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Natasha Romanov Is a Good Bro, Protective Natasha Romanov, Sickfic, T'Challa (Marvel) Feels, T'Challa is too humble, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-05
Updated: 2018-07-04
Packaged: 2019-06-05 12:58:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15171251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Builder/pseuds/Builder
Summary: “No one would blame you, you know,” she says.  “If you wanted to take it easy.”“It’s sitting behind a desk and listening, Natasha,” T’Challa says.  “It is easy.”_____If only things were as simple as that.Also know as That One T'Challa Appendicitis Fic





	1. The wild dog

**Author's Note:**

> I gotta talk first… Thank you for all the interest you’ve shown in this prompt. Thank you to the original anon (on tumblr) who sent it in. I don’t write a lot of long-form stuff, so this is a fun change of pace. I stuck to the gist of the prompt, but I had to shuffle things around a bit and cut out some of the fluff (sorry, it just doesn’t come easily for me).
> 
> I generally do not like slow-burn sickfics because they feel unrealistic to me, and while I adore the heck out of sickfic for the sake of sickfic, I like my sickfics to read like part of a longer book. Things that are 100% illness-driven without angst or other plot points usually fall kind of flat for me, but I’m trying to examine more of T’Challa’s character here. I was talking to somebody about homeboy recently, and we agreed that he’s portrayed a little too perfectly on film. I like to think of this perfectionism as his downfall, and he’s going to really find himself in a tight spot because of it.
> 
> I’ve never written Everett Ross before, but I’m adding him to my list of side characters. I’m also throwing Natasha into the mix because I love my girl, and she has a great dynamic with T’Challa. Also, in order for the prompt to work, we have to pretend Okoye either doesn’t exist or is busy doing other things. 
> 
> After this fic, I am retiring the “character gets sick and runs out of a meeting” scenario (barring any exceptional developments/circumstances that make it unique). It’s a great scene, but I’ve used it waaaaay too much with too many different characters.
> 
> There are surprisingly few warnings here. Emeto, obvs. Hospitals. Swearing. References to canon-typical violence. Laur’s uninformed attempt to explain international politics. That’s really it. 
> 
> On with the show.
> 
> Find me on Tumblr as @builder051

  
  


#  Chapter 1: The wild dog

African wild dog: a gregarious and cooperative hunter of the African savanna 

_____

  


T’Challa glances over the agenda for the day.  It’s the first sheet of a thick packet of papers, neatly bound in a folder bearing the crest of the United Nations.  A flutter of nervousness runs through his stomach. It’s not the first time T’Challa’s attended such an assembly, but it is the first time he’s been Wakanda’s sole representative.  And it’s the first time he’ll be speaking. 

  


His moment behind the podium isn’t scheduled until tomorrow, though, and late in the day.  In an attempt to keep the program devoid of favoritism, the countries have been listed in alphabetical order, placing Wakanda toward the bottom of the roster.  T’Challa will spend today seated behind a desk in the amphitheater of a meeting hall, listening to what the other constituents have to say. 

  


He’s legitimately interested in the priorities and concerns the first several speakers have brought up, but T’Challa’s mind drifts.  As the representative from Belgium approaches the microphone, he uses the moment of shuffling silence to open his folder and flip to the notes he’s prepared for his own presentation.  T’Challa scribbles another bullet point under the section on proposed technological exports, then scans the page from the top. As he reads, he realizes he’d already had a note on vibranium trade.  He shakes his head and crosses out what he’s just written.

  


There’s a sniff from down the desk, and T’Challa looks up to see Natasha grinning at him.  She writes something on the corner of her notepad and slides it down the desk to T’Challa.

  


_ You work too hard.  Your speech is done. _

  


T’Challa looks up at her when he’s finished reading.  Nat raises her eyebrows. 

  


T’Challa shrugs and closes his folder again.  

  


“There you go,” Nat says under her breath.  “Just chill.”

  


“Shh.”  Ross is seated on Nat’s other side, and he turns to shoot her and T’Challa a glare.  

  


T’Challa straightens in his seat automatically and trains his eyes forward.  The Belgian delegate begins to speak, and T’Challa feels put in place. Ross has attended more of these functions than he or Nat, and while T’Challa appreciates sitting beside people he knows, he recognizes that it’s a distraction.  He probably looks young and inexperienced now. It’s not the persona he wants to emanate, even if it’s the truth.

  


T’Challa opens his notepad to a blank sheet and uncaps his pen.  He writes the Belgian delegate’s name at the top of the page, then listens intently for the main points.  It’s challenging to concentrate, though. The butterflies in his stomach are still flapping. He holds his fist in front of his mouth and tries to force out a silent burp.  Nothing happens, though, so T’Challa rubs absently under his nose. He sets down his pen and wraps his arm around his abdomen under the table.

  


The assembly breaks for coffee at 10:00.  T’Challa meanders through the hall, nodding pleasantly to anyone who looks his way.  He considers joining the line for a hot drink and a doughnut, but the thought of food makes him feel ill.  A feeling of heaviness is developing behind his forehead. 

  


There’s a water fountain outside the bank of restrooms, and T’Challa bends to take a drink.  He appreciates the coolness, and he’s tempted to press the backs of his knuckles under his jaw to test for a fever.  He’s saved the effort when someone comes up behind him and squeezes his shoulder.

  


“Hey.”  

  


“Hm?”  T’Challa wipes his mouth and turns to face Nat.

  


“You doing alright?” she asks, looking him up and down.

  


“Yes,” T’Challa answers quickly.  “I’m fine.”

  


“Ok.”  Nat doesn’t look convinced.  “You know I’ll kick your ass if you’re lying to me, right?”  She grins slyly.

  


“I do.”  T’Challa returns the smile.  “Perhaps I’m...not feeling my best,” he admits.  

  


“I figured.”  Nat holds her palm a few inches from T’Challa’s arm. “You’re an oven.  I can feel your fever from here.”

  


“It’s nothing,” T’Challa says.  “A cold, maybe.” His stomach flips, and he does his best not to let the discomfort show on his face.

  


“Right.”  Nat shakes her head.  “What’s really bothering you?  Your head? Stomach?”

  


“I’m alright,” T’Challa insists.  He swallows forcefully to convince himself.  “I’ve been traveling. Eating different foods.  It’s really nothing.”

  


“If you say so…”  Nat still looks unconvinced.  The lights in the centrum flicker, signaling it’s time for the program to recommence.  

  


T’Challa takes one more sip from the water fountain, then follows the throng of people back toward the meeting hall.  Nat falls into step beside him. “No one would blame you, you know,” she says. “If you wanted to take it easy.”

  


“It’s sitting behind a desk and listening, Natasha,” T’Challa says.  “It is easy.”

  


***

  


The next session is only two and a half hours, but a few minutes in, T’Challa’s already regretting his words.  The lunch break can’t come quickly enough, though eating is the last thing T’Challa wants to do. He snakes his arm around his stomach and keeps his other hand propped under his chin, ready to cover his mouth if a sick belch comes up.  

  


The longer he sits there, the achier he feels.  T’Challa’s spine is as stiff as sthe wooden back to his chair, and his stomach writhes around it.  It’s no longer a question of if he’s going to be sick. It’s a question of when. 

  


He looks down at his notepad.  He hasn’t written a thing about the last speaker’s points, but T’Challa doesn’t trust himself to move.  His feeling of malaise has edged into full-on nausea, and everything is making it worse. Breathing, blinking, the scent of Nat’s perfume… it all makes T’Challa clench his jaw against rising sourness in his throat.  

  


If he can just make it until the next break, he can exit the hall with everyone else, find a secluded place to be ill if he still needs to, then cool down and regroup.  T’Challa thinks back to breakfast, then last night’s dinner. Did he eat anything unusual, maybe something that isn’t agreeing with him? Or did he come into contact with anyone who seemed to be sick?  He can’t come up with anything, so he settles for hoping to clear his system and get back to normal.

  


The hall erupts into applause.  T’Challa jumps and immediately regrets it as a volley of throbs runs through his head.  The speaker behind the microphone inclines her head and steps back to her seat. T’Challa isn’t sure what country she’s from, and a pang of guilt joins the churning in his gut.  He quickly picks up his pen, intent on capturing the details of the next delegate’s presentation, but a burning sensation rushes up his throat, and he has to swallow down bile. 

  


T’Challa squeezes his eyes shut and lets out his breath in a long, slow sigh.  He’s in control. He has to be. His jaw is heavy, almost numb. His stomach seems to be sitting in his chest, pounding along with his heartbeat and threatening to spill at any moment.

  


“You ok?” 

  


T’Challa barely hears Nat’s whisper over the sound of blood rushing in his ears.  He nods once, not trusting himself to open his mouth. Moving his head is a mistake, though, and his throat goes into contraction before he can stop it.  Vomit gushes into his mouth, and T’Challa jumps to his feet and sprints for the door, his hand clamped tightly over his mouth. 

  


He’s grateful for his speed and good reflexes, and he manages to turn the corner into the bathroom before he heaves again and sick sprays between his fingers.  He isn’t quite inside the stall, and he catches the floor and the front of his suit jacket in the mess. T’Challa falls to his knees in front of the toilet and belches long and hard.  His spine arches as vomit splashes into the water, flicking some back into his face. He closes his eyes and rubs his clean hand over his forehead. He’s clammy and hot, and he hangs over the toilet as he breathes raggedly and waits for the next wave of cramps to rise from his abdomen.

  


“T’Challa?”  An open palm taps the stall door.  “You’re not ok, are you?”

  


He means to contradict Nat, to insist he’s fine, that he just needs to vomit and he’ll be right as rain.  But as he heaves again, T’Challa’s gut tells him she’s right.


	2. The klipspringer

 

#  Chapter 2: The klipspringer

 

Klipspringer: A small antelope that relies on jumping speed and agility to escape predators in a mountainous habitat

_____

 

By 8:00, the assembly is long-since over for the day.  Most of the attendees have broken out in smaller groups for dinner or, like T’Challa, retired to their hotel rooms.  The only difference is that T’Challa’s been in his since lunchtime. 

 

After fleeing the meeting hall to be sick in the bathroom, he’d admitted he’d be better off resting.  He hasn’t really got around to resting, though, because he’d barely made it into his room before he’d needed to hang his head over the toilet again.  

 

A few attempts at getting up to rinse his mouth have gotten him nowhere, so T’Challa leans back against the bathtub and uses the corner of a towel to wipe clammy sweat from his forehead and upper lip.  His hands tremble as he breathes in the clean scent of the terry cloth, enjoying the break from the bitter stench of sick hanging in the small room.

 

T’Challa’s phone buzzes from the countertop.  The sound echoes against the marble and bounces off the walls, stirring up the vertigo behind his forehead.  It doesn’t stop after a single tone, so T’Challa pushes himself forward onto his knees. It’s more difficult to ignore a call than a text.

 

He uses the edge of the counter for support as he stands up.  “Hello?” he breathes, holding the phone to his ear. 

 

“You’re still sick.”  It’s Nat. 

 

“Hm.”  He doesn’t confirm or deny.  The rawness of his voice will make the answer clear no matter what he says.

 

“Has it been constant?” Nat asks.  “It’s been, what, eight? Nine hours?”

 

“No,” T’Challa says, rubbing the side of his face.  “I think...I’m alright now.”

 

“Wanna meet for dim sum?  I know a place.”

 

The thought of food sends T’Challa’s throat into contraction again.  He swallows hard to press down the urge to gag, but there’s no silencing the gutteral noise that comes up.  “I apologize,” T’Challa chokes. “That was…” He shakes his head, then holds his fist to his lips to stifle a burp.

 

“That’s what I thought,” Nat says.  “You don’t feel any better, do you?”

 

“I’ll be fine once I get some rest.”

 

“T’Challa…” Nat sighs.  “That’s not what I asked.  Ross is staring me down from across the table.  He’s really worried about you. And so am I.”

 

“There’s no need to be concerned,” T’Challa says.  “It’s just a stomachache.”

 

“No, you’ve been throwing up for nine hours,” Nat says frankly.  “Have you ever been sick like that before?”

 

“I’m sure it’s…”  T’Challa’s going to say the flu, or maybe food poisoning, but a fresh wave of nausea rises, bringing apathy with it.  What does he know, really? Only that he feels terrible, and he’s exhausted. T’Challa exhales slowly.

 

“Yeah,” Nat says sympathetically.  “I mean, it’s a low possibility, but think about where we are.  What your position is.”

 

“Natasha,” T’Challa admonishes.  “I don’t think--” 

 

“Hey,” she interrupts.  “All I’m saying is it wouldn’t be the first time a terrorist attacked someone at a UN function.  And it wouldn’t be the first time Wakanada was singled out.”

 

T’Challa’s head throbs as he mulls over the idea.  It intensifies the bad taste in his mouth. Memories stir, and he sees his much younger self, half-delirious with fever and clinging to his father’s knee.  

 

He’s probably over-tired.  T’Challa shakes off the thought, though the corners of his eyes prickle with the threat of tears.  

 

“You still there?” Nat asks.

 

“Yes,” T’Challa says quickly.  

 

“Ross wants to send a doctor to look you over,” Nat reports.  “He used to live here in New York before he moved to Washington, and he knows the guy’s family personally.”

 

Vertigo begins to overtake T’Challa’s senses, and he can barely take in Nat’s words.  “Hm,” he says indistinctly.

 

“I’ll stay with you the whole time, if you want.  Just in case.”

 

“I...alright.”  Saliva floods T’Challa’s mouth, and he steps back toward the toilet.  

 

“Ok.  Ross is calling him now.  We’ll be there soon, ok?”

“Yes, ok,” T’Challa says quickly.  He sinks to his knees, intent on ending the call before he heaves.  “See you.”

 

“You ok?” Nat asks.  Damn her intuition.

 

“Fine.”

 

“You’re going to puke again.”  T’Challa can practically hear her sympathetic smile.

 

“Goodbye, Natasha.”  He ends the call and casts his phone onto the bath mat before folding his arms over the toilet and giving in to a fresh round of heaves.

 

***

 

He’s leaning against the bathtub again, blinking away dizziness when the knock sounds on the door to his hotel room.  “It’s me,” Nat’s voice says. 

 

“That’s Romanov,” Ross’s voice adds.  “And me, Everett. The doctor’s here to see you.”

 

T’Challa steels himself up and slowly rises to his feet.  Soreness runs through his abdominal muscles as he peels himself away from the tub.  A sharp pain lances from his stomach up his side, but he wraps his arms around himself and trudges to answer the door.

 

“Wow.”  Ross says when T’Challa opens the door.  “You don’t look so good.”

 

T’Challa tries to smile modestly, but he has to fight the urge to grit his teeth.  “I’m, uh, not at my best.”

 

Ross shakes his head, and Nat rolls her eyes.  A tall man behind them takes a step forward. He holds out his hand.  “John Sanderson,” he introduces himself. “I’ve seen Everett’s family for years.  He tells me you’ve been sick to your stomach today?”

 

T’Challa nods.  “Forgive me if I don’t shake your hand, doctor,” he says.  “I would rather avoid sharing this illness.”

 

Sanderson chuckles.  “Good man. Why don’t you sit down, and we’ll see what’s going on.”

 

T’Challa perches on the edge of his bed.  Nat nonchalantly kicks the trash can out from under the nightstand, then stands beside him with her hip leaned against the headboard.  

 

Sanderson sets a small duffle bag on the desk and roots around in it.  “So. What kind of symptoms are you having? Stomach upset, I already know.  But what about fever? Headache?”

 

“Um,” T’Challa hesitates.  “Yes. Both.”

 

“You’ve been vomiting?”

 

T’Challa nods, suddenly embarrassed.

 

“For nine hours,” Nat adds.  T’Challa shakes his head at her.  It ramps up his dizziness, though, and he extricates one arm from around his middle to press into his temple.

 

“Is your head spinning?” Sanderson asks.  He approaches with a temporal thermometer.  

 

“Yes,” T’Challa admits.  “I’m sorry. I don’t often fall ill.”

 

“No big deal.”  Sanderson swipes the device over T’Challa’s forehead.  It makes a beeping sound, and the doctor examines the display.  “102. That’s a bit higher than we want it to be.”

 

Ross scoffs.  “A bit higher?  Really? You’ve been pushing through all day with a fever like that?”

 

“I don’t know it it’s been that high all day,” T’Challa rebuts, though the statement lacks punch.

 

Sanderson silences him with a tongue depressor.  He examines T’Challa’s throat and peers into his ears with an audioscope.  

 

“Those look good,” the doctor states.  “Probably not the flu, which is more of a respiratory illness.  You’re fighting something, though. My money’s on norovirus.” He pulls bottles of ibuprofen and pepto bismol from his bag.  “You’ve been around a lot of crowds lately. It’s not too hard to pick up the bug.”

 

“No one else is sick, though,” Nat says suspiciously.

 

“You could’ve gotten it at the airport, or a restaurant,” Sanderson says.  “The main thing is that it only lasts a couple days.” He opens the minibar and extracts a bottle of water, which he lines up on the edge of the desk with the medications.  “Here’s my recommendation. Rest as much as you can. Take these if you can stomach them. And hydrate.”

 

“Sounds simple enough,” Ross says.

 

“Probably easier said than done,” Sanderson says, taking in T’Challa’s apprehensive expression.  “But you’ll be back to normal in no time.”

 

“That’s very promising,” T’Challa says, forcing a smile.

 

Sanderson smiles.  “Good. Well, it’s been great to meet you.  Call me if you need anything else.” He waves, and shoulders his bag.  Ross leads him to the door.

 

As soon as the turn their backs, T’Challa tightens his arms around his stomach and hangs his head.  He lets out a long, slow breath and wills away the sick feeling that hovers in his chest.

 

Nat nudges the trash can closer to T’Challa’s feet and sits lightly beside him.  “It’s ok, you know,” she says. “To be sick.”

 

T’Challa’s shoulders jerk forward as he fights a gag.  “I wish I could embrace that sentiment,” he breathes.


	3. The buffalo

 

#  Chapter 3: The buffalo

African buffalo: a strong and imposing animal of the African savanna.

_____

 

T’Challa wakes to a soft tap on the door to his room.  “You up?” It’s Natasha.

 

T’Challa scrubs his hand up the side of his face, wincing as the stubble on his cheek burns against his palm.  “I am now,” he murmurs. 

 

The knob rattles, and the door swings open.  Nat has the fold of a paper bag held between her teeth and two Starbucks cups stacked in one hand.  She wrangles something into her pocket with the other.

 

“Did you...pick the lock?” T’Challa asks, shoving himself up in bed.

 

Nat shrugs.  “Better that than make you get up.”  She deposits the coffees on the bedside table.  “I brought you breakfast, if you’re up to it.”

 

T’Challa looks to the half-drunk bottle of water on the edge of the desk.  “I think I’m still on the hydration part.”

 

Nat opens the bag and begins spreading cream cheese on a bagel.  “Did you at least keep it down?” She’s remarkably unphased.

 

T’Challa takes his time answering.  “Some.” He pushes the covers off his lap and gingerly gets to his feet.  He opens the wardrobe and drapes a garment bag over the back of a chair, then retrieves his shaving kit and starts for the bathroom.

 

“You’re seriously gonna attend today’s session?” Nat holds the knife above the bagel and stares at T’Challa with a dumbstruck expression.  “After how bad you were yesterday?”

 

“I present this afternoon,” T’Challa states simply.

 

“But…” Nat shakes her head.  “You’re moving gingerly. You don’t have an appetite.  You can’t seriously tell me you’re feeling better.”

 

“I came here for one reason, Natasha.  I can’t ignore my duty.” T’Challa squeezes toothpaste onto his toothbrush.  

 

“So stay here until it’s your turn.  I can call you an hour before, that way you don’t have to sit through the morning,” Nat says, her mouth full of bread.

 

“You and Ross present today,” T’Challa points out.

 

“Yeah,  _ in the afternoon _ .”

 

T’Challa begins to brush his teeth, though the sweet mint flavor of his toothpaste makes him want to gag.  “Don’t dissuade me. Please,” he says as he spits out foam.

 

Nat has her phone out now, and she glances up from the screen to give T’Challa another disappointed look.  “Ross is on his way up to say good morning,” she says.

 

“Alright,” T’Challa says.  He rinses his toothbrush and leans forward to splash water on his face.  As he bends over the basin, a tender spot on the side of his abdomen comes in contact with the hard edge of the countertop.  He gasps involuntarily as pain radiates outward from the point of the collision. Nausea rises with blinding speed, and he can barely trip across the room to the toilet before his throat contracts with dry heaves.

 

***

An argument had ensued when Ross arrived.  It was more of a disagreement since both parties were diplomatic, but T’Challa had come out on top after continuing to insist on attending the day’s events.  He’d agreed to put as much distance as possible between himself and the other attendees, but he catches both Nat and Ross shooting concerned looks at him from their row of desks in the meeting hall.

 

There’s a sports drink on the table beside his folder and notepad, but all are untouched.  T’Challa’s head aches with a slow, steady throb, and his stomach still refuses to settle. It will probably do him good to take a few sips of something, both for the fluid and the calories, but he can’t bring himself to unscrew the cap.  

 

A flush of sickly warmth rises from his abdomen, and sweat breaks out across his upper lip.  T’Challa wipes it away with the back of his hand. Nat makes eye contact with him and subtly shakes her head.  T’Challa plants his elbows on the desktop and rests his chin on his clasped hands. He lets his breath out slowly and tries to concentrate on the speaker at the front of the room, but T’Challa isn’t sure what country he’s from, let alone the subject of his presentation.  

 

Within half an hour, he’s swallowing down vomit once more.  T’Challa can’t fathom how he has anything left to expel, but the urge to gag sits heavily on his tongue.  After the spectacle he’d caused yesterday, he’s loath to bolt from the hall again, but the longer he waits, the less choice he has.  

 

T’Challa interlaces his fingers and holds his hands over his mouth.  He breathes evenly, imagining a cool breeze playing over his overheated skin.  His jaw feels heavy and numb, and a sick belch rises in his throat. T’Challa swallows hard and exhales through his nose.  Clammy perspiration runs down his spine, and the back of his jacket seems to stick to his chair. 

 

Pain shoots through his abdomen as the involuntary contractions of retching start up, and T’Challa stands as surreptitiously as possible.  His legs tremble under his weight, and he only makes it a few steps from the desk before his knees buckle. T’Challa lets out a gasp as he falls, and as soon as his kneecaps slam into the floor, he loses control and heaves.  Bile splashes down the front of his suit jacket, and the hall erupts into chaos around him.

 

“Give him a break,” Nat says with attitude, crouching at T’Challa’s shoulder.  “Feel up to walking?” she asks.

 

T’Challa means to answer in the affirmative, but his spine arches and he vomits again, balanced on his hands and knees and shaking hard all over.  Another tendril of agony radiates outward from his stomach, and he grits his teeth to muffle the pained grunt that escapes him.

 

“Alright, this is too much,” Ross says, appearing on T’Challa’s other side.  “You need the hospital.”

 

“No, I’m…” T’Challa starts.  “I just…”

 

“I have to override that.  You ever hear that actions speak louder than words?”  Ross claps him on the back.

 

“You want me to call 911?”  Nat already has her phone in hand.

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Please,” T’Challa pants.  “I can’t leave yet…”

 

“I’m not so sure this is just a bug,” Ross posits.

 

“I haven’t been poisoned,” T’Challa breathes between cramps.

 

“Oh, I’m not thinking that either,” Ross says.  “Do you still have your appendix?”

 

“Yes,” T’Challa breathes.  His face contorts as a fresh wave of nausea rises, and he grits his teeth to keep from heaving.

 

“Sorry,” Nat murmurs as she punches in the number.  “I have to side with Ross on this one.”

 

Her voice becomes a peaceful murmur as she speaks to the 911 operator.  T’Challa can barely focus through the haze of sickness and pain. He’s aware of the meeting hall emptying around them, and embarrassment heats his cheeks.  

 

“I’m...so sorry,” he chokes, dragging his sleeve over his mouth.  

 

“Hey, it’s not your fault,” Ross says.  “If there’s one person who would never pull a stunt like this, it’s you.”  He offers a wan smile.

 

Time waxes and wanes oddly.  T’Challa eventually sits back on his heels, but pain and nausea keep him from moving much more.  It seems like he barely blinks and paramedics are noisily entering the meeting hall, carrying bags of supplies and pushing a stretcher across the wooden floor.  

 

One of the medics climbs the stairs at the edge of the amphitheater and crouches in front of T’Challa. He can barely hear her soft voice above the pounding in his ears, but when she asks if he can stand and walk, he nods.  T’Challa reaches for the back of the nearest chair and hauls himself into a hunched position. He barely gets his feet under him when an explosion of white-hot agony erupts from the space above his hip bone and bleeds across his stomach and up toward his ribcage.

 

T’Challa groans and staggers, his legs giving way again.  He’s so focused on the intensity of the burning throb that he doesn’t realize he’s vomiting again until bile hits the floor and the sick odor bounces back at him.  

 

“T’Challa?  Can you hear me?”  A panic edges Nat’s voice.

 

“Hm,” he manages between shallow breaths.

 

“Stay with me, ok?”  She squeezes his arm.  T’Challa tries to concentrate on the touch, but sick throbbing spreads rapidly through his body, blurring his visual field and stealing his sense of equilibrium.  Many voices overlap, forming a buzz of conversation around him. T’Challa struggles to hold onto consciousness, but soon his vision fades to red, then black.


	4. The mongoose

 

#  Chapter 4: The mongoose

Banded mongoose: a small carnivore known for wandering between dens and displaying protective instincts while taking down large prey

_____

 

T’Challa comes to as the wheels of the gurney clack through the building’s centrum.  A murmur of curiosity comes from all sides, but it barely registers. His senses are still fraught with pain.  

 

“You with us?”  One of the EMTs roughly wraps a blood pressure cuff around his bicep.

 

“Um,” T’Challa says, struggling to speak without triggering nausea.  He looks past the EMT, at Ross’s blonde head bobbing a few feet away as he jogs beside the stretcher.  “I’m...sorry.”

 

“You’ve got to stop saying that.”  Ross shakes his head. “You can’t possibly think it’s your fault that your appendix just ruptured.”

 

T’Challa looks blankly at him.  One of the EMTs fills the silence.  “We’ll do an exam and a blood test to confirm once we get to the hospital, but your friend briefed us on your symptoms, and, well, it looks like an emergency appendectomy is in the cards for you.”

 

Fresh agony washes upward through his abdomen, and T’Challa chokes down the urge to gag.  “But it’s...such a distraction.”

 

“No way around that,” Ross says.  He holds the building’s front door open as the EMTs steer the stretcher.  “But--oh, shit, really?”

 

T’Challa squints against the bright sunlight, but nothing can obscure the colorful news vans gathered in the street. 

 

“Here.”  Nat’s materialized from nowhere, and she shrugs out of her jacket, revealing a sleeveless blouse underneath.  She tucks the blazer around T’Challa’s shoulders to obscure his face, then starts shouting at the assembled reporters.  “Fuck off, ok? It’s a medical emergency, not a current event.”

 

T’Challa’s grateful for her defensiveness, but with the jacket over his face, he’s lost equilibrium again.  The lack of visual cues paired with the sick pulsating in his abdomen has him breathing down nausea almost immediately.  

 

The gurney bumps over something T’Challa can only assume is the curb, and his throat contracts into a belch that sends bile down his front and onto Nat’s jacket.  “I’m sorry,” he murmurs, though with all the kerfuffle, no one acknowledges the apology. 

 

“Alright, up we go,” one of the EMTs says as the gurney lifts off the ground, sending an uncomfortable swooping sensation through T’Challa’s stomach.  He squeezes his eyes shut, and the world drifts away again.

 

***

T’Challa drifts back to awareness in an unfamiliar location.  Noise comes from all sides, but it’s strangely muffled. The walls are made of fabric, and they seem to be swaying slightly.  T’Challa blinks hard to clear his mind, but fuzziness remains. He’s in considerably less pain, though everything from the shimmer in his vision to the bitter taste in his mouth feels wrong.

 

“Good.  We’d hoped you’d wake up before we took you to surgery.”  A young woman in scrubs pushes back the curtain that makes up one wall.  

 

Surgery?  T’Challa struggles to place recent events in his memory.  Ross’s voice is a quiet echo. “ _ You can’t possibly think it’s your fault that your appendix just ruptured…”   _

 

“Where…?” T’Challa starts, his throat dry and sore.

 

“Hm?” The nurse is busy with a machine in the corner.

 

T’Challa opens his mouth to ask again, but the curtain tears back again, and Nat and Ross appear, looking out of breath.

 

“We found you,” Ross pants.  “Good. They were running tests…”  He looks to the nurse for clarification.  

 

“You’re not supposed to be back here,” she says.

 

“I’m his bodyguard,” Nat lies smoothly, shifting the hem of her blouse to reveal the shape of a gun on her hip.

 

“Ma’am, you can’t have firearms here--” 

 

“How about you do your job and we do ours, huh?” Nat says.  In heels, she towers over the petite nurse. “This man’s life is extremely important.”

 

“I understand,” the nurse whispers, clearly frightened.  

 

“It’s alright,” T’Challa tries to soothe her, but nausea claws its way up his throat again, and he has to suck in a deep, slow breath to steady himself.  

 

“Are you ok, sir?”

 

“Yes,” T’Challa chokes.  “I just--” He tries to swallow the gag, but his reflexes are too slow.  There’s nothing left to purge, so he dry heaves over his lap, strings of spit dangling.

 

“Here you go.”  The nurse edges a pink emesis basin into T’Challa’s grip, then says, “I was going to ask when you ate or drank last, but I think it’s safe to say it’s been a while.”

 

“Mm-hm,” T’Challa agrees, trying not to retch again.

 

“Blood tests confirm you are fighting an infection, suspected appendicitis leading to peritonitis.  As soon as there’s an OR open, we’ll remove what’s left and irrigate the abdominal cavity…”

 

Her words begin to run together, and T’Challa finds himself nodding without knowing what he’s agreeing to.

 

“I’m going to administer some more pain medication, and a general anesthetic…”

 

“What?”  T’Challa tries to blink, but his eyelids are too heavy.

 

“Don’t worry,” Natasha’s voice says.  “You’re going to be alright.”

 

***

“He’s been out of surgery for three hours.  Shouldn’t he be awake by now?”

 

“Shouldn’t you be at the UN giving a presentation?”

 

“...fair enough.”

 

A pang of guilt hits T’Challa in the chest as he opens his eyes and pushes himself up.  “I’ve missed it…” he breathes. He feels the tubing from his oxygen cannula wrapping behind his ears.  He pulls the plastic piece from his nostrils and discards it by the side of the bed. 

 

“Hey, what are you doing?”  Ross’s face swims into focus in front of him.  He grabs T’Challa’s arm before he can go for the IV still latched to the crook of his arm.  

 

“I missed the...the speech.”  T’Challa tips his head back and presses the heel of his free hand into his forehead.  

 

“Uh,” Ross waffles, “I’m not gonna lie.  You did.”

 

T’Challa lets out a disappointed sigh.

 

“But honestly, that should be the last of your worries.  How are you feeling?”

 

Now that he mentions it, T’Challa feels terrible.  His stomach is still a roiling mess, and the rest of his body is tender and freezing.  He sighs again and shakes his head.

 

“The antibiotics might take a little time to to work.” Nat approaches the foot of the bed and takes a paper cup with a straw from the table beside it.  “Water?”

 

T’Challa nods weakly and lets her help him take a sip.  “I’ve made such a mess of things.”

 

“That’s starting to get annoying,” Ross says, crossing his arms.  

 

“He does it every time he gets hurt,” Nat says with a sly smile.  “See? I’m not the only one who thinks you’re too humble.”

 

T’Challa tries to grin back, but his teeth are chattering with cold.

 

“Don’t act like you feel good,” Nat says.  She reaches around the side of the bed for the nurse’s call button.  

 

“What are you doing?  I don’t need--”

 

“You still have a fever,” Nat says firmly.  “At the very least, you need another blanket.”

 

“And now that you’re awake,” Ross pipes up, “Is there anyone you want us to notify?  I mean, the media’s having a field day, but anyone you want me to call? I don’t mind doing it personally.”

 

Another uncomfortable twinge of shirked responsibility comes with T’Challa’s next heartbeat.  “Yes.” He murmurs. “I should’ve called her some time ago.”


	5. Epilogue: The panther

#  Epilogue: The panther

Panther: One of five extant subspecies of feline carnivores known for stealth, adaptability, and majesty.

_____

 

The next time T’Challa wakes, he’s warm instead of freezing.  He shoves the blankets down off his chest before he opens his eyes, and he tugs the neck of his hospital down below his collarbones.

 

“Keep your clothes on, brother,” a familiar voice laughs.

 

T’Challa blinks and glances around the room, his eyes alighting on Shuri.  Her expression is a mixture of amusement and disappointment. Nakia stands beside her, all smiles.

 

“Shuri,” T’Challa greets her hoarsely.  “Nakia. I’ve missed you.”

 

“I know I shouldn’t criticize,” Shuri starts, “But why did you not come home?”  She gestures at the basic hospital room around them. “I could’ve treated you in my lab, more smoothly than this.”  She shakes her head.

 

“I know,” T’Challa sighs.  “I should’ve said something when I first began to feel unwell.”

 

“You should’ve,” Nakia agrees, stepping forward to perch on the edge of his bed.  “But you’re a stubborn one. I hear you were determined to address the assembly, even after you were ill through the night?”

 

Embarrassment brings a flush to T’Challa’s cheeks.  “I see how ridiculous it seems now…” He rubs his eyes and shifts against the pillows behind his back.  He can’t help but smile, though. “You don’t know how glad I am to see you both.”

 

“You don’t know how glad I am you survived this American hospital,” Shuri says, wrinkling her nose in the direction of T’Challa’s IV stand.

 

“I’ve been well taken care of,” T’Challa says.

 

“Only because your bodyguard made sure of it.”  Nakia grins, and nods in the direction of the door.  Natasha’s profile is visible through the window set into it.

 

“She’s still there?”  T’Challa shakes his head.  “Tell her to go home. Rest.”  He looks to Shuri and Nakia. “She’s been there since I arrived.  Every time I open my eyes, I see her.”

 

“That’s not creepy at all,” Shuri says sarcastically.

 

“It’s not,” T’Challa corrects.  “It’s kind.”

 

“It is,” Nakia agrees.  She finds T’Challa’s hand atop the blankets.  “Sometimes you need to accept others’ kindness.  You can’t do it all yourself.”

 

“So I’m learning,” T’Challa says.  He can’t help but smile at her. 


End file.
